Successors
by Mlle Karo
Summary: "Daddy," she hiccuped into his leg, "I don't wanna marry Snotlout!" Girl!Hiccup, kidfic. Oneshot.


**A.N/ **And here it is, my first fic in the httyd fandom! I really like fem!hiccup /shot

My days writing YJ fics are over, so sorry if that's what you wanted!

**Disclaimer/ **I do not work for Dreamworks Animation, and I'm not being paid for this.

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Stoick rubbed his forehead with a scowl. As of last week's dragon attack, four houses still needed rebuilding, and the fishing boats hadn't returned with much. Not nearly enough to replenish what was destroyed, in any case. Gobber had been able to repair the armory and start repairing weapons, and there were no injuries that were worse than the usual, but it was still a nuisance over all. And he could do without all the bloody teenagers running around boasting that they hit a nadder or killed a gronkle, or some other exploit. It was setting a bad example for the children. Already Thorston's twins were chasing after sheep with wooden axes, throwing their toys at the 'dragons', as if dragons were something to be proud of, and not dangerous. How the chief wished that the damned beasts would just go away and leave his island be! If not for his village, then only to make it safer for his daughter.

And ah, speak of the devil. There she was.

"Daaaaadddyyyyyyy!" the girl shrieked, running across the town square to him and clinging to his leg. The men and women helping rebuild the Hofferson house stopped their work to look at her.

"What is it, Hiccup?" Stoick asked, furrowing his brow at the girl. "You know not to bother me when I'm at work."

"Daddy," she hiccuped into his leg, "I don't wanna marry Snotlout!"

That got everyone's attention. The vikings who had tried to ignore the spectacle all turned around, stifling their laughter. Spitelout Jorgenson turned red at the five-year old's words.

"Hiccup," Stoick crouched down to her height - as near as he could get to it, anyway. "Snotlout is your cousin. Why on Earth would you need to marry him?"

"I was playin' with Ruffnut and Astrid when he came over and tried to kiss Astrid," his daughter mumbled, head against her chin. Gerda Hofferson smacked Spitelout around the helmet, leading to raucous laughter from the tribe, but Stoick ignored them. "When she pushed him away, he said that it didn't matter, 'cuz he was gonna be chief one day."

Hiccup looked up at Stoick at last, her eyes wide with anxiety. "But you're the chief, and you're my daddy! Which means that if Snotlout is chief, I gotta marry him. And Snotlout is stinky! And mean," she added as an afterthought.

Stoick sighed and rubbed his face again. "You won't have to marry Snotlout, Hiccup. Now go back to your friends."

"So he isn't going to be chief, right?" The little girl peeked up at him, and the viking went still.

"I'm still the chief, so don't you worry about that. Now go."

Hiccup nodded, gave him a quick hug, and then ran back across the square, arms flailing behind her. Three-quarters of the way she tripped over her own boots and fell flat on her face. When she didn't make a move to get up, Mulch put down his hammer to go and prop her back up. She thanked him and then fled, running out of sight.

"Alright, back to work", Stoick said, rubbing his face again as he rose to his feet. Spitelout's eyes were on him, and he could feel them burning into his back as he returned to the repairs.

The question of who would take his title when he retired - the chief wasn't sure if that was a euphemism or not - was one that he thought of often, especially around Jorgenson. Snotlout was his nephew, and Hiccup was, well... a hiccup. He still hoped that she would grow into a strong warrior, like her mother, but the chances of that happening were unlikely. His best chance was marrying her off to a good viking who could take up his mantle, but if his time came early, then Snotlout would most definitely be chosen as his successor.

He sighed and hammered on a nailhead harder than necessary. He really hoped, for Berk's sake, that it wouldn't come to that.

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